Jack Kilborn - Endurance

“I’ll take this one,” Florence offered.

Kelly already had the key in the door and had opened it. The light was on, and as expected, Lincoln memorabilia was the dominating motif.

“This room is cool! I did a school report on Lincoln. Remember, Mom?”

“I’d feel better if you stayed in a room next to me or Grandma.”

“Aw, c’mon. I’ll be fine. JD will be with me.”

“I’m a fan of Lincoln too, dear,” Florence said. “I was actually at Ford’s Theater when he was shot. Other than that, it was a pretty good play.”

Kelly pouted. Florence considered correcting her on her pouting—pouting wasn’t a useful habit to pick up—but she wasn’t going to usurp Letti’s authority and start making rules. That had been one of many conditions Florence had agreed to when she asked to move in with them. In truth, if Letti had asked that Florence wear a bag on her head and never speak again, she would have agreed to that as well. Repairing her relationship with her daughter, and building one with her granddaughter, were the most important things in her life.

Funny how priorities change when circumstances change.

“You should room next to Mom,” Kelly told her. “It will give you a chance to patch things up.”

Florence gave Letti a look that said, Did you tell her? and Letti gave her the same look right back.

“I’m not stupid,” Kelly said, putting her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what the deal is between both of you, but now is a good time to work it out. I’ll be in here with JD, eating granola bars and playing with my iPod. G’night.”

Kelly smiled brightly, stepped into the Lincoln bedroom with the dog, and shut the door behind her. Florence heard the lock turn.

“She takes after you,” Florence said.

Letti folded her arms. “Meaning she never listens?”

“Meaning she’s strong willed and a smart observer.”

“I don’t have all day.” This from Eleanor, still waiting at the stairs.

Letti pursed her lips and walked after the woman. Florence followed.

After another flight of stairs, and another poster of Mt. Rushmore, the women arrived on the third floor. More low-lighting. More odd memorabilia on the walls.

This woman must spend all of her free time on eBay.

“Letti, this is the Grover Cleveland room. I believe you’ll find it quite comfortable. And for you, Florence, the Ulysses S. Grant room, right next door.”

“Thank you, Eleanor.”

Eleanor handed her the key, but hung onto the key ring.

“If you’re hungry tonight, the kitchen is on the first floor. There’s food in the icebox. I made cupcakes earlier. But be careful walking the halls. Rumor has it the inn is haunted. This property used to be a tobacco plantation. The owners had six slaves, and they treated them harshly. Lashings. Thumb screws. Are you familiar with strappado? They would tie a rope around a slave’s wrists, fasten it to this iron banister right here. It’s actually a gate. See?”

Eleanor touched the railing, unlatching it. It swung inward on hinges, revealing the twenty-five foot drop to the first floor.

“When the slave fell, the rope would pull taut and dislocate his shoulders.”

“Charming,” Florence said, her voice flat.

“Legend says one slave, after his fifth drop, lost both of his arms when they ripped from his sockets. He’s said to roam the hallways at night, looking for his missing limbs. One wonders what infraction he committed to deserve such treatment. Or why his owner would risk the loss. After all, slaves cost money.” Eleanor closed the gate. “Did you know twelve of our Presidents were slave owners?”

“Thank you again,” Florence said, giving the key a hard tug and freeing it from Eleanor’s grasp. “We need to be in town at eight a.m. for the race sign-in and walkthrough. Are you sure your son won’t mind giving us a ride? I’m guessing we’ll need to leave by seven.”

Eleanor offered a big-toothed smile. “He won’t mind at all. I can have breakfast ready for y’all at six-thirty.”

“Are there other guests?” Letti asked.

“At the moment, no. But we’re expecting more later tonight.”

Florence couldn’t understand how this place stayed in business. “Is it the slow season?”

Eleanor’s bug eyes became wide. “Not at all. We’re just very particular when it comes to who we invite into our little inn.”

“You must get a lot of repeat business, then.”

“You wouldn’t believe it. After their first night, some of the guests never want to leave.” She winked, then performed a clumsy curtsey. “Goodnight, ladies. See you soon.”

The innkeeper waddled off. They watched her descend the stairs, giving the iron railing an affectionate pat.

“I don’t like that woman, this inn, or the surrounding area,” Florence said.

“But you can’t beat the price.” Letti put her key in the lock.

“Tell me again how you found this place?”

“They mailed me a letter, saying all of us won a free three-night stay.”

Florence shook her head. “But how do they benefit from that? It’s not like all the other guests here are making up for it. This place is dead as a tomb.”

Letti swung her door open. “We discussed this already. No matter how crummy the place was, we were going to stay. It’s saving us a lot of money, Florence. And you know we need the money for—”

“For me. I know, Letti.” Florence put a hand on her daughter’s, which was resting on the doorknob. She lowered her voice. “We really need to talk about your husband...”

Letti pulled her hand away. “One of the rules is we’re not going to talk about that.”

“Kelly is right. If we don’t discuss it, if you don’t understand me, how will you ever forgive me?”

“Where in our deal does it say I have to forgive you?”

Letti pushed the door open and went into her room, slamming it in Florence’s face.

Do I deserve that?

I don’t know. Maybe I do. Maybe Letti has been right all along.

But that doesn’t mean I would have done things any differently.

Or would I have?

Florence sighed. She’d raised a girl who was just as hard-headed as she was. Hopefully Letti wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Kelly that Florence had made with her.

Florence padded to the Grant bedroom, opened the door, and stepped inside, feeling the space.

It didn’t feel right.

The lights were already on, illuminating the expected Ulysses S. Grant decorations plastered everywhere. Somehow Eleanor had managed to find President Grant curtains, and a bed spread that looked like a giant fifty dollar bill. But it wasn’t the Grant motif that gave Florence pause.

It was the sense that she wasn’t alone in the room.

Florence believed, and had been proven correct on dozens of occasions, that she could sense when others were nearby. It wasn’t any ESP baloney, or any supernatural trick. Many animals had some sort of proximity sense, alerting them to when prey or predators were close. Bats. Sharks. Whales and dolphins. Dogs. It was well within the scope of nature to sense other living creatures near you, without sight, sound, or touch. The same way you could sense when someone was looking at you from across a room, or sense that the door was about to open.

Everyone had this ability, to one degree or another. Florence felt that she honed hers through a lifetime of travelling to different environments, coupled with her interest in meditation and the martial arts.

Different places felt different, in a way beyond what the five senses could report.

And in this room, Florence felt like she was being watched.

But they weren’t friendly eyes watching her.